Poetry

Lifeline

When I speak, my breath never leaves my body
As if I were sealed in a thick, wooden box.
From inside, I see the falling light,
A black breeze dying out over
The silent eye of the ocean,
The rough skin of a tree
Eaten by dark decay.

Friends gather beside me; shuffling past,
Stroking the box’s carved exterior.
I struggle to move, to scream,
But there is no sound
As I am placed into the vault.
Echoing footsteps fade away
Like a failing heartbeat.

Cold, still darkness covers me like fog
But inside the box, far down
In the cedar and velvet where I lie,
I can still see your face.
I can still say your name.
I cling to you with all my strength
Here in the dark.

 

Blown

You can dance the peaceful rhythms
Of a flower’s perfumed fall
But your desire is a blazing rocket
Singing up to peirce the soft belly of the sky.
Like a child born with broken breath
On a steaming warm night
You fight to fill yourself
With the sweet, soft fulness
Of the air, the music, the sound
of the thrilling arrow hitting home.
But you are a prisoner.
Encompassed by the piercing chill
Of the wasteland between
The blazing stars and the bland concrete,
You stand alone.
And always, your ghosts will come singing home.

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